Brown Corduroys
by immovinout
Summary: You watch him walk with his hands in his pockets and head hanging down. He seems so sad. You wonder what could possibly be wrong. He looks like the right sort of boy, not one that should be moping around being sad and such.


A/N: I don't oen Harry Potter

He's wearing old, torn corduroys. They might have once been a dark brown, but they've faded at the knees and bottom by his shoes. There's a place near the knee sewn up with deep red thread. Poorly. His jacket's a little short at the sleeves and you can tell it's old. The jean of it is faded just past the popular color. It looks like it's about to fall apart.

You watch him walk with his hands in his pockets and head hanging down. He seems so sad. You wonder what could possibly be wrong. He looks like the right sort of boy, not one that should be moping around being sad and such.

He stops wondering aimlessly to pace between two trees just with in your line of sight. Every so often he'll pull one of his largish hands from the pockets of his worn pants and run it through his sand colored hair.

For a moment you're so focused on his hair, and isn't a fantastic color, really, that you don't notice another young man run up to the first.

"Moony!" He calls out when he's nearly five meters away. You give this new comer a once over.

He's of an average height (the first boy is taller) with shaggy black hair. He's dressed with more style then the other. Blue jeans faded just right and a leather jacket that, while not new, certainly isn't old. There is something in the way he walks that makes you think he comes from money. A swagger in his step you saw many times in your schooling. All from boys who had well-to-do families.

The young man with the sandy hair, Moony, stiffens immediately. You can tell the other gentleman is not welcomed in the lest.

The shorter of the two men smiles nervously. "Hey," he says. He might have also said, pay, say or may. You're to far away to tell. Moony, you think of what a strange name it is for a moment, drags one of his hands from it's pocket and brings it up to him mouth. He bites down on a fingernail. You had a cousin once who did that.

For nearly ten minutes they fight to quietly for you to hear. By the way they practically dance around each other you can't tell who's the antagonist or the protagonist. They both make grand gestures and hop from foot to foot nervously. However, Moony is perfectly rim rod straight when the other men shouts loud enough for all of London to hear, "because I love you, you daft idiot!"

"Shh! Sirius, keep it down!" Moony hisses equally as loud. You see him glace at you before quickly averting his eyes. He whispers something to this Sirius fellow who also sneaks in a small look. Sighing he steps further away from Moony.

Sirius shoves his hands into his pants pockets. When he pulls them out he's got a pack of cigarettes in one hand and a blue lighter in the other. Sirius smacks the pack against his hand before opening it and shaking a cigarette forward. He brings the box up to his mouth and pulls it out with his teeth. He drops his lips around it while holding the small box out to the other boy. Moony's lip curls as he moves his head back and forth. Sirius shrugs, sticking the pack into one of his front pockets.

He says something around the cigarette while he lights the end of it. As Moony replies he drops the lighter into his other front pocket.

Sirius rolls his eyes and retorts to Moony's reply. He takes a drag off his cigarette. While blowing the smoke sideways through his lips Sirius brushes hair out of his face with the same hand that held his cigarette. You smile as you remember when your sister did that and she caught her hair on fire.

While you're reminiscing they manage to come to an agreement of some kind. You only came out of your musings in time to see two men walk side by side through the park. One is tall. He wears dark brown corduroys and a worn jean jacket that's to short in the sleeves. The other is shorter. He wears a black leather coat and blue jeans faded in a way your grand daughter says is cool.

If you'd seen either of the two without the other you'd never have guessed in a life time that they would be close.

But now you think that you'll never look at another jean-wearing, leather-jacket-sporting, cigarette-smoking young person again without wondering if they were going home to someone vaguely like the young man in the dark brown corduroys.


End file.
